Paint with a Two-Inch Brush

I paint, not watercolor or oil on canvas or mirrors or old saw blades, not realist and not impressionist and certainly not surrealist.

I paint thirsty walls and cabinets that haven’t been painted in thirty-some-odd years. I used to tape every bit of wood, but now I tape nothing, drape nothing, wear the same clothes I wear to church. I use a two-inch brush, and I ease the paint toward all the edges while music blasts in my ears – Red Hot Chili Peppers tonight – and I thrill when no paint drops or runs or errantly spots some nonpaint surface; in that moment my world feels ordered and comprehensible. Within this paint-sphere I can laugh or sing or cry; I can breathe.

And I remember from whence I came; I remember that a job well done satiates in a world where so much is left undone.

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